Sacred Poetry from Around the World

The birds don't alter space.They reveal it. The skynever fills with anyleftover flying. They leavenothing to trace. It is our ownastonishment collectsin chill air. Be glad.They equal their duemoment never begging,and enter ourswithout parting day. Seehow three birds in a winter treemake the tree barer.Two fly away, and new roomsopen in December.Give up what you guessedabout a whirring heart, the littlebeaks and claws, their constant hunger.We're the nervous ones.If even one of our violent numbercould be gentlelong enough that one of themfound it safe insideour finally untroubled and untroubling gaze,who wouldn't hearwhat singing completes us?